


Les barricades.

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: Mai 68 AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, dubious claims made about 1960s France that I based off 2018 France, many historical references and a fuckton of research, soyons cruels!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-04-22 13:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14310201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: “I think,” says Bahorel, “a group of students could do anything.”-Marius comes out as a leftist! Courfeyrac becomes a radio star! Enjolras falls in love with a rock! Many barricades are built, friendships are strengthened, and good times are had. Also, it's a revolution. The fourth part of the long-awaited self-indulgent Mai 68 AU.





	Les barricades.

**Author's Note:**

> Usual caveat that this story contains descriptions of police violence. If that squicks you out, proceed with caution.

QUATRIEME PARTIE: LES BARRICADES.

 

Vendredi, Mai 10, 1968

 

“Léo Ferré is performing at the Mutualité tonight,” says Prouvaire, knees drawn up to his chest, tapping his fingers absently against the side of the boombox that’s resting on the counter of the café Musain. “Are you planning to attend?”

“No,” says Enjolras, frowning. “I don’t particularly care for those who claim to be on our side but then ridicule us simply because we’re young and they believe that makes us inexperienced and therefore incapable of making our own decisions.”

“Our parents say that they worked hard to make the world better and easier for us,” says Bossuet, “and now, when we want that as well, they call us entitled and lazy. They wanted our lives to be good, and when we say we agree, they turn on us.”

“Ferré was nice when he didn’t try to comment on young people’s issues,” adds Courfeyrac, musing, his chin propped in his hand, other hand shifting restlessly against the table. “I’m sick of nostalgia for a past that wasn’t better than the present we have now and the future we will have. It’s so _boring_.”

“Boredom is counterrevolutionary,” Joly agrees. Nearly all of them are at the café, crammed into seats at two tables that they’d pushed together into one to accommodate everyone. “Pouvoir populaire.”

“Well, it’s in the 5e, if _anyone_ wants to be there,” Prouvaire says, subdued, almost sour. “I had originally wanted to go to Cannes, but since that’s not an option, fine, then let us be anarchists.”

Cannes: the annual film festival, the showcasing of talent. Godard, Truffaut, Delon, Polanski, Karina, Faithfull, Lelouch, Berri, Malle, Léaud. A list of names. The cinematic world has been muttering uneasily since February, since Langlois was dismissed in favour of Barbin. The spectators at Cannes will come for the drama and excitement and glamour as much as they will come for the cinema.

The quick and quiet little reminder that ordinary life continues still, in the world outside the barricades.

“The workers have gone _en grève_ in Givet, in Adrennes,” says Bahorel, obviously trying to change the subject. He glances over at Prouvaire, but Prouvaire isn’t looking at him, just staring sullenly down at his lap. “They occupied the Wisco factory.”

“That’s good news,” says Feuilly, startled.

Bahorel laughs, sheepish. “Well. Gendarmes dislodged them eventually, but hey. It’s still a start.”

“Gendarmes,” says Enjolras. The arrival of gendarmes means a military presence in the country. “They take this to mean war.”

“Are you implying it’s not?” Bahorel’s grin is sharp.

Enjolras rubs his eyes. He looks exhausted. “We need more support. There are only a few hundred students and maybe half as many workers in Paris who are willing to offer overt support. We need a focused goal.”

“Are we still going to focus on university reforms?”

“No,” says Enjolras slowly. “No, this is bigger than that, and has been for weeks now. We’re going to try to reform the government.”

“Personally,” Bahorel says, “I don’t think we should _reform_ the government, I think we should _remove_ the government. Don’t remodel and replaster if the structure is rotten and corrupted!”

Joly raises his eyebrows at them. “Do you think that a group of students could tear down the entire government?”

“I think,” says Bahorel, “a group of students could do anything.”

 

 

-

 

 

 _Anything_. Accomplish anything, do anything, change anything. The raw potential and possibility is eating its way through the city, caustic and sharp. Students can do anything, and they will do everything.

 

 

-

 

 

“‘The police post themselves at Beaux-Arts, the fine arts are postering the streets,’” Feuilly reads, and looks up. “Prouvaire?”

“Vaneigem,” says Enjolras. The light is strong enough through the windows that he can read the faded print when he takes the sample poster and examines it. “Or Debord, I forget which one. A fascinating _situation_ either way. Oh, also, we’re going to need to buy some more ink soon.”

“Don’t think I missed that,” says Feuilly, glaring, and Enjolras laughs.

There’s a knock on the door, and Bahorel leans in. “Hey, comrades, how’s the capitalist labour structure treating you today?”

“Fucking us over,” Feuilly admits. “We’re almost out of ink.”

Bahorel tsks. “Use your own blood, sweat, and tears. If it was good enough for the rebels of ’57, it’s good enough for you.”

“I’d rather keep bodily fluids _out_ of my atelier, but thank you immensely for the suggestion,” says Feuilly dryly. “Oh, hey, settle this for us—Vaneigem or Debord, which one of them talked about the fine arts?”

“Vaneigem or—” Bahorel hums, leaning back easily against the wall and considering the question. “Well, it’s—well. The answer isn’t so straightforward, it’s—look. Revolution is art in of itself, life and beauty and truth and glory. Art is politics, and politics is revolution. Art is a revolution, and it’s beauty. Not just beautiful— _beauty_. You get the beauty from doing the right thing, which is the revolution. The revolution is the purest form of art there is. The only form of art that shouldn’t be destroyed along with the state. So, I don’t remember precisely which _situ_ talked about fine arts, but in a sense they all did, and all still do, because the revolution _is_ the art. Does that help?”

“If you must destroy art in the revolution,” says Feuilly flatly, “leave mine alone. Capitalism already wants to destroy my art.”

Bahorel grins broadly at him. “Brother, your papers are _for_ the revolution. We’ll not touch them.”

“Reassuring, truly.”

“Although, you claim to be socialist, and yet you seek to keep and protect your own property—”

Enjolras looks back at the faded prototype. “What was it, commodities are the opium of the people? And religion is the opiate of the masses. What it comes down to is that there’s an opioid for everyone.”

“Uncharacteristically pessimistic of you, considering you scorn such vices,” says Bahorel, “but, yes. That was Debord. Media, religion, society, family! All oppression.”

“Is friendship oppression, as well?” Feuilly’s eyebrows are raised.

Bahorel snorts ungracefully. “If it’s forced upon you by your oppressors, then it is. if you choose something that’s been enforced by the media, then are you really choosing of your own volition? Would we want families, friends, lovers, if society didn’t expect it? But, while we’re speaking of friendship and comradeship—listen, some of us are planning a demonstration tonight, in the Quartier Latin. You should come, they all want to hear you speak.”

Enjolras looks instinctively towards the closed door. “They? Who else is going to be there? Mostly _nanterrois_ , or others?”

“I found some people—students, yeah, workers and that whole crowd. The proletariat. The people! They heard about your speeches, they want you to talk about revolution. Inspire them. That sort of thing.”

“I—” Enjolras can’t think of what to say. “I didn’t give speeches, not really—”

“Anyone can give speeches, comrade, and I’ve heard you speak.”

“That’s not—”

Feuilly sighs. “Enjolras, we’re behind on work, we haven’t been keeping up with printing. We need to get more ink—”

“Forget work,” says Bahorel, leaning against the doorframe. “Go on strike. Some of the other printshops are doing it. The factories are refusing to work. The workers are all striking. Tear it all down.”

Enjolras presses his lips together and looks at the Xerox machine in the corner, spitting out its copied sheets of paper.

“Forget your labour,” Bahorel urges, “think of the revolution. The situation isn’t calling for order.”

“The situation is calling for printing, though,” Enjolras points out. He isn’t interested in abolishing the parts of the system that _do_ work, only adjusting the ones that need amendments.

“So then go on strike, and keep printing for the revolution. This isn’t placid discussion and negotiation—we _tried_ that. It’s a war, comrade. We fucking fight. What’s the quote, everything I did was for the revolution? Tell me who _that_ was.”

Enjolras sighs. “All right. But in terms of practicality, we can only do this for so long before we need to start bringing in some other form of revenue. We still need to eat, we still need places to sleep. We still have to plan.”

“Fuck that, you don’t _plan_ a revolution,” Bahorel laughs, but at last he concedes, “but fine, whatever you say. I’ll see you at the Quartier Latin.” He grins one last time, salutes them, and slips out of the printshop.

 

 

-

 

 

Enjolras is shivering as they walk along the rue Saint-Jacques towards the rue Soufflot, from where noise emanates. The air is warm enough for an average May night, but it’s pitch-dark already, despite the fact it’s barely 20.30 by Feuilly’s watch.

“You get cold easily,” says Feuilly, fond. Enjolras rolls his eyes at him.

The barricade is forming at the entrance to the rue Soufflot. The night is illuminated with flickering flames—there’s a pile of papers and other rubbish in the middle of the street, and several silhouettes are moving about it, adding more fuel to the fire.

“Burning government propaganda,” says Bahorel, appearing out of nowhere, shoving Enjolras playfully with his hip. “If only we could burn the ORTF, the RATP, everything! Propaganda is everywhere.”

“Yes,” says Feuilly dryly, “Enjolras and I were just printing it.”

“You know that’s different—hey! Hey, Bossuet!”

Bossuet turns, Joly still leaning on his arm, and grins when he sees them. “Oh, hey,” he says, hugging them both quickly. “I didn’t think you’d be here in time.”

“Well, we are,” says Enjolras. “Is Prouvaire here?”

“Yeah.” Bossuet’s smile tenses. “He and Bahorel and Grantaire went to the Mutualité. I don’t want to say it was a disaster, but—”

“In the interest of honesty,” Joly says, linking his elbow with Bossuet’s, “it was a riot. We’ll arrange another ciné-club or something, as an apology. Watch some Godard, maybe. I know he was really looking forwards to seeing Ferré perform tonight.”

“Godard can’t revive the culture he seeks to illuminate,” Bossuet murmurs. “He should come join the riots if he wants to make a difference in the world.”

Along the rue le Goff in the Val-de-Grâce, students are grabbing anything they can to add to the barricade.

It’s 20.41 according to Feuilly’s watch.

The others are working on the barricade, except for Grantaire, who’s leaning against the wall and smoking, watching. “ _Ange_ , come cut a pipe with the lowlifes,” he calls, waving at Enjolras, who rolls his eyes and ignores him.

Bahorel and a handful of others set themselves against a lamp-post towards the intersection with the rue Soufflot, only giving up when Enjolras climbs onto someone’s car and holds up his fist, fingers closed tight. There’s an answering roar from the crowd, a rush that sweeps over them almost like a chilling wind, despite the heat of the fires in the street.

“Like 1848,” Bahorel says when he returns, grinning. “A barricade by the opening to the rue Soufflot.”

The rue Soufflot has seen many barricades in its time. Old echoes mark the stones.

While the barricade is being built, the students occupy themselves in other ways. Courfeyrac takes great pleasure in shredding a paper copy of the official notice detailing the lockdown of the universities, and throwing the scraps to the wind. The gathered students all watch the fragments flutter high into the air, caught in the updraft caused by the leaping flames.

The Minister of Education has dismissed the students. The students are wild, unbridled things, he has claimed. The students are disrespectful and careless. The students are reckless and naïve. The students respect neither doctrine nor faith nor law.

Bahorel dons this label particularly proudly, and borrows a paintbrush from someone to write the words on the wall like a badge of honour.

“First it was _ni dieu ni maître_ , now it’s _ni foi ni loi_ ,” he says, standing back with hands casually on hips, admiring his work. “No faith, no law! I guess I’ll never be a lawyer, then— _that’s_ my creed. I could use a bit of liver, though. _Sans foi, sans foie_.”

Factories, universities, unions.

Build it up. Tear it down.

Bahorel, accustomed to working in the factories, has planned ahead enough to bring crowbars, which he pulls from his backpack and distributes amongst the crowd.

Someone finds an abandoned pneumatic drill in an empty lot nearby, in the wake of the reconstruction in the Quartier Latin. The bricks give easily.

Barricade after barricade. Storm after storm.

Build it up.

Tear it down.

 

 

-

 

 

The students construct the barricades, bricks and boards and anything else they can get their hands on. The students were never expecting the workers to join them. The trench has been dug; the path is prepared.

And the workers—

 

 

-

 

 

Close to sixty barricades have been built, scattered in a broad web throughout the streets, when the workers arrive.

 

 

-

 

 

The gates have burst, and now it’s a flood.

 

 

-

 

 

They clasp hands, exchange stories, thank one another endlessly. Who brought the workers? No one knows; all that can be said is that they arrived. “We heard there was trouble in the Quartier Latin,” someone says, as explanation. No other explanation is given.

Workers give the movement legitimacy in the eyes of the administration—to the universities’ administrations, to de Gaulle’s government, the crowd is no longer students playing at creating a revolution.

To the movement, to the students themselves, it never was.

 

 

-

 

 

Enjolras knows the city well enough to be able to picture in his head where each barricade will need to be in order to preclude police attacks. Enjolras doesn’t ask much of those who are present, beyond their participation—he _leads_ , he shows the way, he carves a trench, a groove, and opens doors for others to dash along in his wake.

“The police want to corner us and beat us until we relent and beg them to return to what they consider _normal_ ,” he says. He rarely shouts, but his voice is clear and strong. “They want us to beg? We will beg for nothing. We will ask for nothing. We will take; we will occupy.”

Extend a hand; grab hold. Take.

 

 

-

 

 

21.15 by the watch Combeferre wears.

Enjolras has his dress shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows, sweat glistening on his skin, eyes bright and face flushed.

“You know, they say the cobblestones were designed to be easy to tear up?” says Grantaire, to no one in particular. “Before fucking Haussmann, of course.”

Combeferre pauses in his work, suddenly excited. “Paris itself was built for revolution,” he says, eager, then launches off into some tangent concerning structural integrity and its fallacies, something that somehow turns into a heated rant about how the Tour Eiffel was a work of genius and how Haussmann was a mistake.

He’s excited. They all are.

Courfeyrac refrains from commenting on the fact that the Tour Eiffel looks to him like a cheese-grater.

“When this is all over, I’m going to steal some of the bricks and make a statue and it’s going to be the most ironic thing I’ve ever done,” Bahorel grunts, lifting another chunk of stone to add to the current barricade.

“The best statue you could make,” says Grantaire, who’s leaning against the wall of the street and smoking again, “would be if you threw the bricks at the cops’ heads, and buried the bastards.”

Bahorel grins at the nonsense. “I like that. _Feuille_ , write that down. ‘The most beautiful sculpture is a paving stone thrown at a cop’s head.’ I love that. Write that down somewhere, oh, I’m serious, I’m going to title my masterpiece that.”

 

 

-

 

 

For all the talk of violence coming from both sides, most of the time is spent in waiting and listening to the ORTF report mulishly on the happenings throughout the evening.

At 22.20 the PCF joins in the demonstration and associated strike, if reluctantly. The illusion of control must be granted: they claim the CGT almost instantly.

The CGT doesn’t deign to comment on the proceedings.

“ _Communists_ ,” says Bahorel, grinning, bouncing on the balls of his feet to stay warm. “I wonder how the government’s going to take _that_. They’ll probably panic. They’re like a bunch of bulls, afraid of red flags.”

“Afraid of sickles,” says Feuilly, rolling his eyes, “because they’ve never had to do a day’s work in their lives.”

 

 

-

 

 

At 23.15 the rumours that the police are spying on them begin. The gathered have been talking, singing, smoking to pass the time; the news strips away any casual behaviour instantly. More bricks are pulled up, more Molotov cocktails are prepared. Someone writes on a wall:

N O U S  V O U L O N S  V I V R E !

We want to live.

 

 

-

 

 

There’s nothing else to do but wait.

It’s Feuilly who starts singing first, little more than a low hum to himself as he arranges loose bricks—“Le café est dans les tasses; les cafés nettoient leurs glaces, et sur le boulevard Montparnasse la gare n’est plus qu’une carcasse—”

Prouvaire takes up the chorus next, his voice thin but determined. “Il est cinq heures, Paris s’éveille, Paris s’éveille!”

“It’s close enough to five in the morning at this point honestly,” says Courfeyrac, although it isn’t, his voice dry from disuse, from shouting anthems at the city itself. He joins in anyway, punching the air. “Je suis le dauphin de la Place Dauphine—”

 

 

-

 

 

The Place Blanche looks ancient and decrepit in the washed-out light from the faded street lamps. The rue des Abbesses has been renamed: _la rue des abaissés._

“The _abaissé_ , the ABC,” says Courfeyrac, and grins at Combeferre. “From the clergy to the people. They say religion has dumbed us down, well, then we’ll take it all back.”

 

 

-

 

 

At 2.16 in the morning, the police attack.

 

 

-

 

 

Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire have begged off the vigil the others keep, and go to warm up in a nearby café, the Corinthe.

Gavroche is lurking behind the nearest barricade: a burnt-out car, flipped on its side, the seats ripped and the chrome scratched silver. He can see the students and workers huddled next to one another, next to gathered piles of burning government propaganda, next to the walls of the street where it’s a little bit warmer.

Those not keeping watch are resting; many of the others have fallen asleep from utter exhaustion from the day’s events. Enjolras is sitting on a half-melted car tyre, his chin in his hand, blond hair a dull beacon, his eyes drifting shut.

“You should get some rest while you can,” Gavroche hears Combeferre murmur.

“So should you— _you_ haven’t slept at all,” Enjolras retorts, and Combeferre’s laughter is quiet, muffled, like he’s covered his mouth with his hand.

Gavroche slips into the café.

 

 

-

 

 

Prouvaire lifts brick after brick after brick. It becomes something endless. Fight. Push. Run. Keep moving. Don’t get caught, don’t get grabbed, don’t get hit. Cover your mouth, your nose, your face when the bombs go off. Stay close to the walls.

He thinks: everything is burning.

He thinks: this is the way the world ends.

Fires are burning all throughout the street. Shouts and explosions mingle with the pounding of shoes against the cobblestones. Sirens pierce the billowed clouds of smoke as fire engines speed through the streets. The air is tinted an eerie green.

This is the way the world ends.

Molotov cocktails and flash grenades give off momentary light. Street lamps lining the street have been broken, the bulbs shattered by a well-aimed brick or pole. The government-provided light is replaced by fires burning and bombs exploding.

It ought to be a metaphor.

He thinks: bliss was it in that dawn to be alive—

He can’t remember how the quote ends. But to be young was very—

Something.

Prouvaire is still throwing bricks at the scattering lines of _flics_ when he notices that his hands are so soaked with blood that the stones slip from between his fingers when he tries to hold onto them. He can’t feel the pain; anger is bursting, white-hot, behind his eyes. He’s sick of the entire world.

This is the way the world ends.

Through the smoke he can see Joly and Bossuet stumbling away from the buildings and towards the middle of the street, covering their mouths and eyes.

“The _flics_ ,” Bossuet shouts, ragged, “they attacked the café.”

This is the way the world—

It ends with a click, and then the final boom of sound. A bomb exploding right next to your head, a smoke grenade going off. The noise of your skull on cobblestones.

 _Bang_.

 

 

 

 

 

Samedi, Mai 11, 1968

 

The rue Soufflot has become the _rue de mai 10_ , the street of May tenth. The singular news channel shows footage captured the day before: the riots, the fights, the burning. There are rumours that the police, led by Javert, have sent in _agents provocateurs_ to infiltrate the rebellion.

To delegitimise the movement: the police would use trickery alongside outright force. Their methods are cruelly overt.

Rather than discourage, the news infuriates. The movement gathers support, like flypaper. Adherence to the cause.

The signs are specific now. They tell a specific story.

MONSIEUR, VOUS ETES VERT DE JALOUSIE. ON A LE POUVOIR!

LA MAIN VERTE NE PEUT PAS AIDER LE PEUPLE A GRANDIR.

Javert: the chief of police, the capstone on the pyramid of bureaucratic law enforcement. The pinnacle, the apex. His name is a hated one. The workers march his hanged figure in effigy through the streets, shouting and waving flags and bricks.

 

 

-

 

 

“They’re going to open the Sorbonne again,” says Feuilly, dropping a packet of freshly printed pamphlets onto the table at the café Musain with finality.

The cafés have been tentative to reopen after the events of the last night. The broken windows and remnants of homemade bombs littering the vinyl floor of the cafés lining the streets are a physical testament. Most cafés are still closed; many have boarded up their windows and locked their doors.

Feuilly can still see the sight of Bossuet staggering away from the Corinthe, blood streaming down his face and soaking his shirt. He’d been sitting right in front of the window when it exploded.

Joly and Grantaire are less injured, but still definitely shaken and bruised. Grantaire had disappeared, hadn’t been seen since the riot, until he turned up hours later smelling of cigarettes and cheap booze, and refused to speak about the events. Joly’s leg is worse, from running without any form of aid. He can barely walk, now, even with a crutch. His ankle is twisted, swollen. Bruised.

Each time Feuilly blinks, the images are lurking, vivid, behind his eyes. He can’t make them leave him alone.

Enjolras looks up from where he’s been writing something on the back of a discarded pamphlet. “Not Nanterre, I suppose?”

“That’s where _you’re_ from; they can’t risk it,” Feuilly says, with a wry grin. He slides into the seat across from Enjolras and props his chin on his hand. “And Cohn-Bendit and his group—Sartre interviewed some of them, apparently. I think the administration has decided it would be too big of a risk for them. Reasonably so; I’m certain we would be able to occupy the university if they reopened it.”

“I hope so,” says Enjolras, and writes another line.

Feuilly shifts in his chair. “Working on more declarations?”

“Working on my sociology homework,” says Enjolras, almost sheepish. “Castells wanted us to write about urban sociology. I guess we’re going to be ridiculously behind by the time things reopen. Depending on what reforms they concede to in the end, of course. Combeferre is set on not dropping out, so I won’t either. You finished the pamphlets?”

Feuilly nods and pulls the top one out to show him. “We’re going to try to get to a million people at the march today—I’ve got Bahorel and Grantaire helping me distribute them, since they have bicycles and aren’t working right now. I mean, Grantaire isn’t working normally anyway, but I got him to help.”

“Impressive,” says Enjolras, dry.

Feuilly smiles in acknowledgement. “He sends you his regards, by the way.”

Enjolras shuffles the papers back into a neat stack and slips them into his bag. “The major unions are all on board for a strike on the thirteenth—the CGT, the CFDT, the FEN, even the PSU. The PCF was reluctant to help, but this is on their terms, so they didn’t complain _that_ much. I presume Pompidou announced the news about the Sorbonne?”

“Pompidou, yeah.”

“So he’s back in Paris.”

“Unfortunately. The riots last night drew him back, I think. But apparently news has spread globally.” Feuilly leans forwards on his elbows. “Enjolras, there are protests and marches happening in England, in America, in Germany—all in support. There are universities outside of France that have closed down. It’s so much bigger than just here.”

“And to think it started with a handful of students protesting at the inauguration of a swimming pool at Nanterre.” Enjolras smiles and sets down his pencil. “It’s a revolution, and such things don’t have borders. We’re going to change the world.”

Matelote, working the counter of the café, sees the two of them and turns on the radio with a grin.

 _Il est cinq heures; Paris s’éveille._ _Paris s’éveille_.

Paris awakens.

 

 

-

 

 

When the bricks and boxes and crates fail to form an effective barricade, cars are turned over and sideways to block the streets. Several participants start cars and let them drive into walls, into each other, shouting and laughing over the crunch of metal and chrome.

Javert and the police force publish the numbers.

The cruel reality of the statistics: the picture painted is not flattering for the students.

The facts shock. They’re intended to shock.

“Three hundred sixty-seven citizens injured, of which two hundred fifty-one are police and one hundred two are students. Fifty-four people are hospitalised—eighteen police and four students.” Combeferre turns off the television with a look of despair. “They’re going to hold this against us.”

Javert leaves a moment of silence for the viewers to fill in the blanks, the gaps in the numbers, the schism.

There are too many blanks. Too many gaps, too many schisms. The students, despite any setbacks, still inflicted far more damage onto the police.

It’s supposed to be a good thing. It should be a good thing.

And yet they have seen no change.

“They’re afraid of us,” says Courfeyrac, chewing relentlessly on his lower lip. “We’ve accomplished that much, at least.”

The right to a suitable response. The right to be adequately feared.

This is supposed to be a victory.

It doesn’t feel like one.

“Four hundred and sixty-one individuals were arrested,” Javert says through the radio, voice flat, ineluctable. “Sixty of those were foreigners. Sixty-three of those arrested will be brought before judges—thirty-four workers, twenty-six students, and three _lycéens_. One hundred and eighty-eight vehicles were burned or otherwise damaged, sixty of which have been deemed irreparable. The compensation will be weighty.”

The threat is overt: the police can and will press charges.

“Either we do this entirely,” says Enjolras, “or we don’t do it at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

Lundi, Mai 13, 1968

 

A million people, for this next march. A million voices. A million bodies.

Cohn-Bendit has put out a call for a general worker strike all across France. The factories open like floodgates.

The goal is reached easily, with students and workers: a million bodies in the streets of Paris, marching and singing. They sing workers’ songs, revolutionary songs, strikers’ songs. The sing loud and clear.

They sing the _Internationale_ , and keep time with the rhythm of their shoes against cobblestones.

Hundreds of thousands of workers leave the factories. Smaller demonstrations and marches form in other cities; the film festival in Cannes is delayed briefly by a group of a few dozen insurgents who march past shouting about reformation. The old world, the culture and society of the old world, is stagnant.

Empty the basin; refill it with something fresh.

A purgation.

A cleansing.

Pompidou makes a personal address through television and radio at midday: he guarantees the release of any prisoners and the reopening of the Sorbonne. “We will ensure that all is returned to normal,” he says. Probably it is meant to reassure.

It’s a blatant victory for the students. Pompidou knows this, from the bleak resignation on his face. He looks exhausted. He looks old.

“I prefer to give the Sorbonne to the students,” Pompidou says, “than to see them take it by force.”

 _Université populaire_ , Sorbonne is called. The people’s university.

The students have cast off the mantle of Robert de Sorbon and the other statues of cold and forbidding antiquity. The university is theirs.

They ask for nothing; they beg for nothing. They take. They occupy.

They occupy the Sorbonne.

 

 

-

 

 

Joly stuffs the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth with one hand as he turns the corner of the rue Saint-Jacques.

His other hand grips the makeshift cane he’s been using as a necessary crutch. He hasn’t been marching with the rest of the ABC and the other students and workers. He doesn’t think that his leg would be able to handle another long march through the streets of the city. But he can go to the Sorbonne now, now that it’s been occupied, and the ache in his knee and ankle is barely noticeable as he reaches the end of the street that leads into the university’s main courtyard.

He shivers with excitement, speeds up as best he can with his leg aching, and arrives at the Sorbonne.

The statues out front are draped with flags: bastardised and shredded French _tricolores_ alongside black and red flags. Marxist posters are pasted to the columns; anarchist symbols are spray-painted on the walls.

Courfeyrac is standing in the middle of the courtyard, tearing apart a poster of de Gaulle’s face and feeding it to the small fire burning on the stones.

Bossuet waves when he sees Joly. He’s seated at the foot of a statue of Louis Pasteur. Feuilly is sitting on Pasteur’s knees, threadbare slacks rolled up at the ankles. A red flag has been stuffed into Pasteur’s stone hand.

The others are all there— _sorbonnards_ , _nanterrois_ , everyone. Even Prouvaire, even Grantaire. Even Marius.

Combeferre is reading a copy of _L’ACTION_ and eating a sliced pear, but he looks up. “Joly, hello! Look, now the entire ABC is in one place.”

“We need a new name,” Joly announces, and stretches out on the stones with his arms behind his head and his feet in Bossuet’s lap. Bossuet removes his shoe and starts massaging his ankle absently, and Joly relaxes into the touch.

“What’s wrong with our current one?” says Combeferre, sounding mildly injured. Joly remembers hearing that Combeferre had come up with the idea originally.

Bossuet scoffs. “You don’t like the ABC?”

“I like the _abaissé_ well enough,” Joly says, grinning, “but seeing as we’re now occupying an entire university, we need something grander.”

“The _Comité d’Occupation de la Sorbonne, Populaire et Libre_ ,” says Bossuet slowly, his fingers rubbing the bone of Joly’s ankle joint, and trills the _L_ s when he asks, “how’s that sound, Jolllly?”

“Very official,” says Joly, and closes his eyes.

 

 

-

 

 

Occupation is _boring_. Courfeyrac is relieved when Marius shows up again later in the afternoon, when the sun is high and hot over the Sorbonne. Marius slips hesitantly into the university, bringing with him a picnic basket and an air of uncertainty.

Courfeyrac jumps up. “Pontmercy! Where were you? And more importantly, where’s the picnic?”

“I—I was in the area,” Marius stammers, blushing and almost dropping the basket. “It’s—it’s for you, for—for us. I was passing by—”

“And you just happened to have—” Courfeyrac peers into the basket, eyebrows creeping towards his wild black curls. “Two dozen sandwiches?”

Marius turns red and tightens his grip on the basket. “My grandfather disowned me,” he says stiffly, in a rush, avoiding eye contact.

“Oh,” says Courfeyrac, surprised. “Well, shit.”

America drops physical bombs on Vietnam; Marius drops verbal bombs on Courfeyrac’s good moods.

But Marius looks absolutely miserable, so Courfeyrac can’t be too irritated with him.

“I—I told him about you—by accident, I swear!” he hurries to add, when Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow in response. “I wanted to get his—his blessing, before I asked Cosette to—to marry me, and—he said I was too young, that I didn’t know what I wanted, that she was poor and didn’t have a proper family and that I would—would be abasing myself to marry her, so I—” He shuffles his feet. “I told him to go to hell, and that I loved her and that was all that mattered, and he said I wasn’t his grandson, so I. I left. Olympie—the maid, she made me the sandwiches.”

Courfeyrac drapes an arm across Marius’s back. He doesn’t say anything about rushing into a relationship, doesn’t mention that Marius has only known Cosette for a few days. Instead, he rubs Marius’s shoulder comfortingly. “Abasing yourself, hm? Well, welcome to _l’abaissé_. You know you can keep staying with me if you need.”

“I know,” says Marius, and rests his head against Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Hey!” says Joly. “We changed that.”

Courfeyrac ruffles Marius’s dark hair. “Right, forgot. We’re now the Occupation Committee of the People’s Free Sorbonne. Welcome to the revolution, then. It’s been an interesting day so far.”

Marius doesn’t move his head. His chin is digging into Courfeyrac’s collarbone. “Yeah,” he says, faint.

Courfeyrac shifts their position so that he can hug his friend properly. “Hey. You can keep staying with me, or we can find you somewhere else to live. I can help pay for your food and clothes and things like that.”

“I don’t have a way to pay you back.” Marius’s voice is muffled into Courfeyrac’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I don’t want charity,” Marius protests, lifting his head. “I don’t want—”

“Okay, okay, fine,” says Courfeyrac, waving his now-free hand, “you can sweep and cook and clean the bathroom, and we’ll call it even. And then we can go together to riots and participate in the revolution and fight against people like your grandfather—fuck him,” he says, vehement, “you don’t need his blessing to do anything. If you want to marry your girlfriend, then damn, I’ll officiate. Fuck them all. If a baby capitalist like you can realise things are bad, anyone can.”

Marius chokes out a laugh-sob into the collar of Courfeyrac’s shirt. Then he stills, and says, “Hey, I’m, ah. Courfeyrac?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m, I think I’m more of a leftist, actually,” says Marius, his ears flushing. “I don’t know _what_ , exactly, I just—don’t like how things are. Don’t laugh,” he adds, morose, self-deprecating, “I know my family supports de Gaulle, I know my father favoured the, the old world you’re always talking about, I just—I don’t think it’s right.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t laugh. He says, slow and careful and quiet, “You’re a good person, you know, Pontmercy. _Comrade_.”

Marius does laugh, then, and wipes his eyes. “You were being serious about letting me stay with you again, right?”

“ _Let_ you? You’re my best friend,” says Courfeyrac. “I would love to have you stay with me forever.”

“You’re my best friend too,” Marius says, then immediately corrects himself and adds, sounding betrayed, “no, no, you have Enjolras and—and Combeferre—”

“And you have that old man who lives in the apartment below us—M. Mabeuf, with all the books. And the _cabbage plant_ on the apartment balcony, don’t think I didn’t hear you talking to it about Cosette and how much you love her—”

Marius shoves half-heartedly at his shoulder. “Shut up. You knew what I meant.”

“It’s different with them. They’re like my brothers, but you’re my best friend.” Courfeyrac ruffles his hair again, carefree and laughing, and feels like a fire is being started in his chest when he sees Marius’s watery smile.

Love, he thinks. Love is a fight.

 

 

 

 

 

Jeudi, Mai 16, 1968

 

Several things happen at once, over the next few days.

A sit-down strike occurs in Sud-Aviation in Nantes; the workers attempt to occupy the _atelier_. De Gaulle departs for Romania to chants of “ _Good riddance!_ ” from workers and students; the National Assembly gathers to discuss the situation. The théâtre de l’Odéon is occupied by over two and a half thousand students, and the Renault factory at Cléon is occupied by nearly as many workers.

Berliet is occupied as well. The workers rearrange the enormous letters on the front of the building until they spell _LIBERTE_.

In Paris the workers refuse to work. Food, newspapers, electricity, petrol, clothes, medicine, tools—nothing is distributed to anyone who isn’t part of the revolution. Transportation within the city ceases; transportation out of the city slows and stops. The RATP and SNCF are no longer running.

Pompidou makes a speech that no one watches. The televisions are black and blank, and the electricity is controlled by the workers, who shut it off periodically for a few minutes each time. Just to remind everyone that the city belongs to the revolution.

The situation has accelerated to a near-complete cessation of Paris itself within a month. De Gaulle and his administration are reeling in the aftermath.

 

 

-

 

 

The door banging against the wall of the café startles them all, and Marius actually jumps to his feet, mouth open, shocked, as Feuilly bursts into the Musain, eyes shining, and shouts, “Sud-Aviation! At Nantes—they finally occupied it—workers and students—”

His cheeks are flushed, and his chest is heaving.

The excitement Enjolras wears is palpable; it breaks across his face like rays of light. “Long live the revolution,” he says, voice trembling, and grasps Feuilly’s shoulder.

“Renault in Cléon,” Feuilly gasps, leaning his weight against the table and Enjolras’s supporting hand, “and Nouvelles Messageries here in Paris, both occupied completely as of today—the workers and students are united. The people are united.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “I’d offer you a celebratory smoke, but,” and he gestures to Feuilly’s heaving chest, “breathing appears to be labour enough that your lungs could start a union of their own, my friend.”

Combeferre pours a glass of water, which Feuilly gratefully drinks and reaches for more. “Did you run all the way here from the shop?” he asks, concerned, and Feuilly shakes his head quickly.

“Borrowed a bike from some kid—gave him my lunch. I had to get here to tell you.” He exhales slowly, trying to bring his breathing back under control. “RATP and SNCF have both shut down for good—air transport as well. No one is getting in and out of the city or the country by those means.”

“I know how to fly a plane,” says Bahorel, grinning.

Bossuet shoves his shoulder. “You do _not_ ,” he says, but he sounds unsure even as he says the words.

“I _do_ , I’ve been to Sud-Aviation—”

“That’s _hardly_ the same thing—”

Courfeyrac coughs unconvincingly. “Who would’ve thought that Cléon would be the _cl_ é _on_ need?”

“We need to ensure that the people know about this, that the workers have joined us for certain,” says Enjolras quietly. Even hushed, his voice carries through the café. “The newspapers aren’t being distributed, but we can put out posters throughout the city, and there are those of us who have bicycles or mopeds. And we can go on foot.”

“We can go to the Sorbonne,” suggests Bossuet with a shrug. “Nanterre is still closed, but we still have the people’s university, don’t we?”

The people’s university: the students set their sights on the summit. They clasp hands and climb.

 

 

-

 

 

_Documentation._

[L’écriture d’Enjolras.]

 **Communiqué** : Comité d’Occupation de la Sorbonne, Populaire et Libre: Sorbonne, 1 rue Victor Cousin, Paris

jeudi 16 mai 1968, 15h30

COMRADES,

Considering that the Sud-Aviation factory at Nantes has been occupied for two days by the workers and students of that city,

     and that today the movement is spreading to several factories (Nouvelles Messageries de la Presse Parisienne in Paris, Renault in Cléon, etc.),

THE SORBONNE OCCUPATION COMMITTEE calls for

     the immediate occupation of all the factories in France and the formation of Workers Councils.

Comrades, spread and reproduce this appeal as quickly as possible.

FROM The Sorbonne Occupation Committee of the Free University of the People

 

 

-

 

 

It’s late enough that the streets outside are dark. The occasional flash from a grenade or Molotov cocktail illuminates the windows of the Musain, but the sound is muffled through the glass. There are still fires burning in the streets—heaps of pro-Gaullist propaganda set alight, flames licking the barricades.

Tonight, they are not in the streets. Tonight they are in the café, planning, strategizing, preparing.

Enjolras is sitting in the corner of the café with Feuilly and Prouvaire, working on another communiqué, while Bahorel reads aloud a book of André Breton’s surrealist manifestos, feet up on the table casually.

The door opens, releasing a burst of light and sound from the riot outside, then Combeferre is hurrying in, looking urgent. “Enjolras—everyone—turn on the radio—Europe no1, just _trust_ me.”

In the corner of the café, Gibelotte obeys hastily, and none other than Courfeyrac’s voice comes through the speakers, staticky but unmistakably excited.

“—thinking of me, especially at a time like this, with the factories working alongside the students for the same goal. For which we thank you greatly, of course—right. Introductions! I’m Courfeyrac, _nanterrois_ , political philosophy student and general revolutionary anarchist. I was there at the first events at Nanterre, when the students decided to fight back against the establishment that refused to allow us anything. For those of you who weren’t there, it went like this—”

“Joly and Bossuet,” explains Combeferre in a hushed tone as Courfeyrac explains, “are hosting the barricade radio.”

Sure enough, Bossuet’s voice fills the room next, cheerful. “Could you talk about what the students are doing now?”

“Absolutely,” says Courfeyrac promptly. “Well, the people’s university—that’s the Sorbonne, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention—is currently occupied by students, as I’m sure you all can guess by now. The Comité d’Occupation is handling communication to similarly minded groups in other countries, since most of France is on our side. De Gaulle won’t be back for at least another two days, so in the time we have we’re going to transform France. Make what he considered his country unrecognisable. De Gaulle needs us, but we don’t need him, and we’ll make that much clear.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a good plan, then,” says Joly. “Any thoughts on collaborating with the workers?”

Courfeyrac huffs a laugh full of static. “We’ve all been screwed over by the government, why should there be a problem in coming together to resist? Revolution isn’t exclusive. Let’s leave the exclusivity to the Gaullists—and the PCF.”

Combeferre groans and buries his head in his hands, but the look in his eyes when he emerges is fond.

“Also a good plan,” Joly comments. “We are, unfortunately, short on time, so we have to wrap up Courfeyrac’s interview, but before you go, would you like to say anything extra to the citizens listening?”

“Yeah,” says Courfeyrac, then pauses for a moment. “Revolution is a bloody battle at times, yes, but it isn’t just that. It’s a change, a conviction. It’s caring enough about something that you make yourself known. It’s love, pure and simple. There’s something my Mamá used to tell me, _amar es una lucha._ Love is a fight. It’s a constant uphill climb. You have to fight for what you love. That’s what the revolution is—love. Not hate for your oppressors, not fury at the lack of a change, not disgust at the state of the world. _Love_. Love for the world, for your comrades, for your friends. And my love is for all of you.”

“Well,” says Bossuet, “that’s Courfeyrac from Nanterre for our interview today. And now twenty minutes of uninterrupted revolutionary music, because it’s no revolution if you can’t dance. But one last thing, a reminder before we start the music—every one of you can help us by spreading the word through anything you can think of. Leaflets, announcements over microphones, comic strips, songs, graffiti, posters in the Sorbonne—I mean the people’s university, of course—”

“Announcements in theatres during films—or while disrupting them,” adds Courfeyrac, with a quick little huff of a laugh, “not that I’ve done _that_ , naturally—this one goes out to those at the Odéon—”

“Balloons on subway billboards,” suggests Joly, nonsensically.

“Before making love,” says Bossuet, laughing slightly.

“ _After_ making love,” says Joly.

“In elevators,” Bossuet adds.

“Hopefully not at the same time—free circulation doesn’t extend _that_ far,” says Courfeyrac, his grin evident even over the radio, and he adds, “and of course each time you raise your glass in a bar.”

“And many more ways,” Bossuet concludes. “And now we turn you over to the music. More reports on the current situation of the barricades and police violence concerning them after this. _Je choisis, Europe 1!_ ”

The radio starts to play a Françoise Hardy song, and then everyone is speaking at once.

 

 

-

 

 

Courfeyrac is ecstatic.

“I’m going to replace the ORTF,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He hasn’t stopped humming along to the music now playing on the radio ever since he returned safely to the café. “If Nanterre can be unravelled after only four years of service, so can the ORTF. We can do anything we set ourselves to.”

“Sorbonne was unravelled after centuries,” Bahorel points out. “Nice reference to the PCF, by the way. They’re going to _hate_ us.”

“They already hate us,” Courfeyrac says with a shrug, “for being young and unafraid and unwilling to bow to their clearly superior power.”

“There’s power in numbers,” says Combeferre. “Like it or not, whichever side to which the PCF chooses to adhere will have a great advantage over the others.”

“I know that,” Courfeyrac grumbles, “but that doesn’t mean I _like_ it.”

 

 

-

 

 

The police response: quick and caustic. There is talk of police strikes. Rumours are rumours, but words still mean something, still contribute to the tension pooling in the ranks of law enforcement. The police are angry at losing ground, angry at the conflicting commands, angry at the administration that told them this would be an easy task. They shift, mutter amongst themselves, consider.

Paris still smells of smoke. Residual flames lick the stones of the papered streets. Somewhere in the city, a siren wails its call eerily into the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Samedi, Mai 18, 1968

 

“De Gaulle is back,” says Enjolras, letting the door to the café fall shut behind him. “The film festival in Cannes is definitely shut down, now that so many directors withdrew their films—in solidarity, they said, I think Godard plans to join us in Paris. A few others as well. There’s good and bad; Cannes is a victory, but de Gaulle is unexpected. We need to ensure that his early return doesn’t cause us to lose support.”

“More flyers and posters,” Feuilly suggests, “and we can visit some more of the factories, I suppose, although I honestly don’t think we need anything more from the workers—they’re already with us.”

“It’s the PCF we need to focus on,” Enjolras says. His mouth twists, and he sits down across from Combeferre at the table. “With de Gaulle back in Paris, the PCF will likely see this as an opportunity to place themselves as the right hand of reason, advocating only minor adjustments to their own government status, as opposed to major reforms to the entire government. De Gaulle doesn’t want to lose his position. The PCF would be the better option for him, in that case.”

“So we need to move first,” says Combeferre. “How do you feel now about speaking on the radio?”

“I hadn’t considered it in any seriousness until Courfeyrac did,” Enjolras admits. He shrugs. “It could be a good idea.”

The return of de Gaulle: Romania has lost him a full twelve hours earlier than previously planned.

The dissolution of Cannes: the festival has been occupied. Directors withdraw their films from competition. Finally, finally, the jury resigns, and the festival ends prematurely. Truffaut speaks to the eager media, saying that the directors stand in solidarity with the events occurring in Paris.

Support is a powerful thing. Support is what drew de Gaulle away from his presidential journey and back to his seat of power. Support is what precluded a violent end to the tension at Cannes and scattered the event in a cinematic show. Support is what is happening in Czechoslovakia, in Germany, in Spain, in America, in countries across the world. The world is going to change.

When the barricades arise this time, there is an air of levity that surrounds the events. The police have used maintenance trucks and construction equipment to clear away the barricades of the tenth and eleventh of May, but there are always more supplies.

A few people attempt to drive past the barricades. Moving cars weave through crushed and burning ones.

The police are still a volatile variable. No one is certain which side they support.

Not even the _flics_ themselves seem to know.

Enjolras had originally spoken against getting more supplies—it wouldn’t serve them much to have their belongings stolen or ruined by the police—but, as time dragged on, hour by shining hour, he permitted Marius and Courfeyrac and a couple of others to slip quietly away from the barricades, to return to their apartments or houses or other lodgings, to return with arms full of blankets and water bottles and food.

The crowd of onlookers has grown and swelled as the morning bled into mid-day; Courfeyrac is sitting on the hubcap of a blue car so scratched it looks silver, calling out mockeries at the mob of passive onlookers.

He doesn’t have a flag, so he’s taken Bahorel’s bright red jacket and is waving it defiantly at every passer-by who gives him a look of disdain.

“They call us sheep, we call them cattle,” says Courfeyrac proudly, face flushed. “We might be afraid of pens, but they balk at the sight of a red flag.”

“Either way,” says Grantaire, “you still end up as meat.”

 

 

-

 

 

Most of the time between the riots is spent in waiting.

They recite poetry, Prouvaire sitting on a hubcap and tapping his fingers on his thigh to the rhythm. They sing, and Courfeyrac and Bahorel dance, attempting a waltz. They smoke and drink and laugh and swap stories.

“So, Pontmercy, best friend of mine,” says Courfeyrac, leaning forwards until his elbows rest on his knees, “tell us more about this girl you’re planning to marry.”

Marius flushes. “I haven’t actually asked her yet,” he admits, “but I love her, and I know she loves me as well, and I want to marry her, and I don’t _care_ if her family’s poor—I love her, that’s all that matters.”

“Bourgeois, vous n’avez rien compris,” Joly murmurs.

“She’s beautiful,” says Marius, hearing his own voice tremble. He can picture her, and he closes his eyes to grasp the image—long brown hair, wide blue eyes, curving lips. “I’m going to ask her father for permission to marry her.”

“My last encounter with a woman was nothing so romantic,” says Bahorel wryly, taking a cigarette from Grantaire when it’s offered. “She laughed at me, even when I was between her legs. Sexual liberation, that’s what they say—and I don’t mind a bit.”

Grantaire laughs harshly and makes a crude gesture that causes Marius to look away, face burning. “If you opened your mind as often as your fly, the world would be a better place for us all.”

“My love laughs at me,” says Joly, morose, “but she’s cruel about it, and doesn’t _say_ anything outright.”

“That’s the girl who was with you at Sciences Po that one day—Musichetta, with the pretty eyes?” Bahorel raises his eyebrows and lets a smirk appear on his face. “Have you tried my, ah, my technique?”

Joly, it turns out, has not in fact attempted Bahorel’s technique. Bahorel proceeds to describe the act in gleeful detail, despite the way Marius blushes furiously and Enjolras rolls his eyes from his position atop the hood of another car, a flag draped across his knees.

“Enjolras is just inexperienced,” says Bahorel with a wink. “Too devoted to his real mistress, the riots. He would lie back and think of barricades.”

Enjolras snorts. “Bricks, surely,” he says, and there’s a smirk on his face, causing Bahorel and Courfeyrac to whoop with delight.

“Jouir dans les pavés,” says Grantaire, leering.

“Something like that,” says Bahorel. “Something like that.”

 

 

 

 

 

Dimanche, Mai 19, 1968

 

At the Gare de Lyon, the students are using the lids off dust bins as shields. Barricades blocking the streets while the cars attempt to drive. The barricades have closed the street but opened the way.

This is the world in 1968: caught like a bird in a net, incapable of escape. The riot police wear face guards like fencers, obscuring even their eyes. Barricades lock down the city in the same breath that they open the gates for dissent to become palatable. Paris is encircled by storm clouds.

The sky opens, and it rains.

 

 

-

 

 

Cosette is waiting at the café, legs crossed neatly, hands clasped in her lap. “Hi,” she says, and stands up when Marius approaches. “You’re early.”

Marius can feel his ears turning red. “Better than late, right?”

She smiles. “Yes, definitely.”

It’s awkward, then, suddenly. Marius sits down across from her and fidgets with his napkin. He doesn’t know if he should drape it across his leg or keep it on the table. The etiquette drilled into him at his grandfather’s house has slipped away.

He reaches for his water glass and almost spills it. Cosette smiles again, but her eyes shift away from him briefly before returning.

Marius fumbles for something to say. “So,” he manages, “you said you met Courfeyrac before, right?”

“Yes, I went to Nanterre with some of my friends,” says Cosette. She folds her hands in her lap again. “I didn’t know you knew Courfeyrac, or even who he was. I was trying to figure out if anyone at Nanterre was involved in—well, in the protests.”

“Courfeyrac would be involved in everything, if he could,” says Marius, rueful. “He was at the first protest—or, well, at Nanterre. Some of the students told off Missoffe.”

“You’re not as involved, though, are you?” asks Cosette, blunt. “You were at the march protesting the war in Vietnam, but apart from that I don’t think—”

Marius ducks his head. “I’m not part of the group, really,” he admits. “I’m not really part of anything anymore.”

“You’re friends with Courfeyrac—”

Marius shrugs. He doesn’t know how to explain anything.

“Reform, yes,” says de Gaulle through the radio. “Chaos, no.”

 

 

-

 

 

Chaos: _chienlit_. A play on words, on the phrase _chie en lit_ , on _chien lit_ , dirty whichever way you construe it. Dog shit.

Marius thinks: my father. My father is dead.

He knows, then, with a sudden sickening clarity. No one escaped the murders in Saigon, in Huê’, in Laos, not during Diệm’s bellicose winter before the war. Bodies were found frozen, mutilated, blood solidified in their veins. No one escaped if Diệm wanted them dead.

He is dead, Marius thinks, and feels lightheaded.

 

 

 

 

 

Lundi, Mai 20, 1968

 

“The revolution,” de Gaulle says on the television, “is a breakdown of civilisation. Anarchy is not the way to pave the path to a better future.”

“It’s better than what we currently have,” Prouvaire murmurs. He and Grantaire are sharing cigarettes and watching de Gaulle’s speech. Prouvaire kicks the leg of Grantaire’s chair. “Hey. You’re an anarchist, right?”

Grantaire snorts. “In a sense. There hasn’t yet been a society that I like, so why not get rid of it all? In thousands of years, humanity has yet to come up with a system that works. It always gets torn down so someone can start anew. My opinion is, why bother trying again when you know it’ll inevitably come to a sticky end? People don’t change. Revolution doesn’t change. Things don’t change. The machine just fucks us all over. So yes, you could say I’m an anarchist.”

“We fight for a better future,” says Prouvaire, penitent, and he takes another deep inhale of smoke.

“I say, forget the future,” Grantaire counters, obstinate. “Fight for the present. Who gives a damn about the future? _We_ won’t be there to see it.”

“Reformation,” Prouvaire says. “Reform the system.”

“Reform, my ass,” says Grantaire. “You’ll scream about equality until your voices get hoarse, cry for change until you’re crushed underfoot, shout for liberty until it’s beaten out of you. And what will change? Nothing.”

Bossuet pokes his head around the corner. “Are you two being nihilists again? Hey, come with us, Joly and I are going to the People’s University to hear Sartre speak.”

“And you call _us_ nihilists,” says Grantaire, but he and Prouvaire both get up and follow.

 

 

-

 

 

Philosophy is a touchy subject in the culture of the student rebels. André Breton is hailed as a genius; Marx is lauded as a god. In the same breath, textbooks of the classical scholars are burned in the streets as government propaganda. Philosophy is a double-edged sword: Sartre dances on the thin line between two extremes. Either he will relate to the students, or he will not.

Sartre speaks at the Sorbonne, at Renault in Boulogne-Billancourt, in the centre of France’s still-beating heart. An intellectual paradise, he says, will come. Students and workers alike will live in harmony in this future.

In the future, there will be no more war. In the future, the people will not fight amongst one another over petty quarrels. In the future, everyone will be equal from birth until death, no division by inherent qualities or monetary capability. In the future, economics and working-class equality will be one and the same.

In the future, the obsolete will be obliterated. De Gaulle will be gone, Missoffe and Roche will be gone, Pompidou will be gone, all the formerly sung heroes of an older gilded age will be replaced with new bronzed youth.

 _Jeunesse_. It is the word on everyone’s lips.

A rumour flies from person to person: Sartre was advised to be brief. Thirty minutes later, the rumour has become a joke. Forty minutes later, the crowd is murmuring amidst itself. Sartre speaks for forty-five minutes before he climbs down from the literal packing crate upon which he stood to deliver his speech.

In the future, Enjolras thinks, mouthing the words to himself, there will be peace.

Ten million workers are on strike. France is paralysed, tensed, waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
